Her brows rose as she accepted the tan trousers, linen shirt, and hat. “You regularly carry around clothing that doesn’t fit?”
“When I’m going to rescue widows from war zones, yes,” he explained. “There are women who would rather die than wear male garments, but I like to be prepared. Female clothing isn’t well designed for escaping trouble. Climbing out of windows or riding astride are much easier in breeches. Because I wasn’t sure what size my widow would be, I erred on the side of large.”
She shook out the shirt, which fell to midthigh. “You certainly did. But it’s smaller than one of yours.”
“You’ll look like an urchin, but that’s not a bad thing in these circumstances.” He thought a moment. “You were wearing sturdy half boots, weren’t you? That’s good. Much better than delicate little slippers.”
“Like you, I was thinking ahead in case I might have to run for my life. Will you pack this in your saddlebag?” She handed over the blue gown, then disappeared into the bedroom to change.
He dressed also, pulling on his trousers and boots and tucking his shirt in. The heavy London coat could wait till they left. He explored the food basket Mrs. Turner had provided the evening before and found crumbly biscuits, a medium-sized chunk of cheese, and a bottle of tepid but flavorful lemonade.
Callie emerged from the bedroom in her shirt and trousers, her hair braided and pinned up so she’d look like a boy when wearing the hat. As she settled at the table to eat, she said, “I gather you’ll be in full lordly array.”
“Yes, and envying you for being lightly dressed,” he said feelingly. “But if we run into British troops, I may need to become all lordly again.” He sat opposite her and split a biscuit, then laid a slice of cheese in the middle.
When they’d finished eating, Callie packed the empty bottles into the basket along with the remaining food. “I’ll take this back to Edith when I say good-bye. I’ll miss her.”
Gordon rose and pulled his coat on. “I’ll saddle Samson while you take a last look around.”
“There’s nothing here worth carrying away.” She moved into the bedroom and returned with a folded blanket and her pistol. “It’s going to be awkward riding on your saddlebags. This blanket can be used as a pad so I won’t be so uncomfortable.”
He accepted the blanket and pistol. “I presume this is loaded from yesterday. Rather than pack it away, better to ride with it ready to hand.”
“It’s loaded. Perhaps it will be more useful today than last night.” She bit her lip as she gazed at the weapon. “But . . . I don’t know if I can shoot a man. Though I’m a good shot, last night when those soldiers broke into my house I couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger. Since shooting only one man wouldn’t save me and would probably get me killed, I was spared from having to fire, but today . . . might be different. I’m afraid I won’t be able to do what is needed.”
“It’s hard to deliberately choose to kill another human being,” he said seriously. “I’ve had to do so, and it wasn’t easy. It’s not something I make a habit of. But a warning shot can have a sobering effect on attackers, and if anyone really needs to be killed, I’ll take care of it.”
She smiled wryly. “As much as I like to proclaim how capable I am, that’s one responsibility I’ll gladly leave to you.”
“I learned such skills the hard way, so I’ll do what’s needed. But sparingly.” He lifted the saddlebags and added her folded blanket. “I’ll saddle Samson. We can walk him down to Mrs. Turner’s house for your farewells.”
She lifted the basket. “I’ll look around to see if there’s anything Edith might be able to use, then join you out in the street.”
He nodded and headed outside. The acrid scent of smoke was much stronger there, but the storm in the early hours had saturated the ground and smothered some of the odors.
Samson had made good use of the fodder and water and looked ready to face the day. Callie’s idea of the blanket pad was good and Gordon secured it across the saddlebags on Samson’s broad back. When he led his mount from the shed, he saw that Callie was in the street but had turned right toward the remains of her house rather than left toward Mrs. Turner’s.
Leading Samson, he followed her. She stopped and stared at the ruins of her home, her face like granite. Charred bricks and blackened timbers had collapsed into rough piles, and rain had turned the ashes into a filthy mess. At the far edge of the wreckage, a thin wisp of smoke rose.
Abruptly she pivoted and walked toward him, her jaw set. “I’m sorry, Catkin,” he said quietly.
Ignoring his sympathy, she said, “Thus ends one act of my life. We’ll see what comes next.”
He fell into step beside her, Samson ambling obediently behind. He realized that they’d avoided looking each other in the eyes since that disturbing moment when they woke up. The relationship between them was compelling but impossible to define.
“I had concealed holsters built into the front edge of the saddlebags.” He tapped the left bag. “Your pistol is in here, not visible but easy to draw if necessary.”
“You remembered that I’m left-handed,” she said, surprised.
“Of course, since I am, too.” He chuckled. “Sinister, which means ‘left’ in Latin. It gave our fathers another reason to believe we were limbs of Satan.”
She smiled, much of her tension fading. “They never lacked for reasons to believe that. Nor did they ever realize that treating a child as if it’s wicked will make it genuinely wicked in time.”
Interested, he asked, “Is the opposite true? If you treat a child as if it’s good, does it become so?”
“Probably, but I’m not sure. My children have always been good.”
Their conversation ended when Edith Turner saw them and came outside. She stared at Callie. “I’d not have recognized you, Lady George! Are you leaving now?”
